


Undressed to Kill

by Isis



Category: Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: Consent Issues, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-13
Updated: 2008-01-13
Packaged: 2017-11-01 22:27:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/361969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isis/pseuds/Isis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The penalty for inappropriate dress is to take it off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Undressed to Kill

**Author's Note:**

> prompt: inappropriate

Andy skidded around the corner, breathless, and thank God Miranda wasn't there. She placed the package in the correct orientation on Miranda's desk, then went back into the outer office. "Emily, look, you've got to cover -"

" _What_ are you _wearing_ ," asked Emily, her voice rising in horrified fascination.

"This delivery guy ran into me when I was getting out of the car, and he spilled this orange soda all over, it ruined the blouse, so I've got to -"

Emily's expression changed, and she was looking over Andy's shoulder, and - shit. She turned, trying to pretend she was still wearing the Lagerfeld blouse and not the Owen's Sandwiches sweatshirt the delivery guy had pressed on her in apology. "Hello, Miranda," they chorused.

"Andrea," she said as she swept by. "In my office."

Fuck.

"Close the door."

She did so.

"Andrea," Miranda said. Her gaze was fixed about two inches below Andy's neckline, burning holes all the way through into her skin. "How dare you wear such an inappropriate… _thing_?" The distaste that curled her lip made it clear that _thing_ was only a euphemism.

She took a deep breath. Miranda would not want to hear the story of the delivery guy and the orange soda. "I'm sorry."

"Do you think I want to hear your useless apologies? Take it off."

Andy stared.

Miranda advanced. "Are you deaf? Or do you just enjoy hearing me repeat myself?"

She slid the sweatshirt over her head and dropped it to the ground. Thank God she'd worn the Ultimo bra. Although the way Miranda was eyeing her breasts, maybe it would have been better to wear something that didn't expose quite so much skin under the pale lace.

Miranda stepped closer, to the side, so Andy could only see her from the corner of her eye. She made a _hmmph_ noise that probably meant _Andrea, you are as fat as a dairy cow_ , then took another step. Behind Andy, which was even scarier.

"With all the quality clothing that is available to you," said Miranda's voice from behind Andy's right ear, "I simply cannot understand why you -" and the sentence must have continued with something insulting but Andy missed it, because Miranda's right hand had reached around, curling to cup Andy's right breast.

"I'm sure you agree," said Miranda sharply, and Andy wrenched her shocked gaze away from Miranda's impeccable fingernails long enough to gasp, "Yes, of course."

"How refreshing." Miranda's voice was almost a purr, and those fingernails, those _fingers_ stroked across the lacy edge of her bra, dipping underneath to slide across her skin. Miranda pressed against her back, oddly warm; Andy would have thought she'd be made of solid ice, but Miranda was hot against Andy's back, moving, _rubbing_. That was Miranda's thigh against her butt, that was Miranda's warm breath gusting past her neck, that was Miranda's hand, Jesus Christ, her hand, on her nipple her stomach the waistband of her skirt fuck fuck fuck.

She stood perfectly still, perfectly quiet. (She could just imagine it: "Andrea, did I tell you to moan?") She wondered what Emily was thinking, there in the outer office. Jesus. Had Miranda ever done this to Emily?

Miranda's breath on her neck grew harsher, coming in short, even spurts; the rhythmic circles of her crotch (fuck fuck fuck) against Andy's body became thrusts, and then the fingers curving around her breast tightened, and Miranda emitted the tiniest of gasps.

Then abruptly Miranda's hand dropped, and she stepped away. The sudden coolness of air-conditioning on Andy's back made her shiver. Miranda strode toward her desk and slid smoothly into her chair without a glance toward Andy. Not a hair, marveled Andy, out of place. Nor anything else.

Miranda's eyes flicked upward. "Why are you still here, Andrea?"

Andy grabbed the sweatshirt from the floor and fled.

"Andy, are you -" started Emily, and Andy shook her head violently and did not look at her.

"I've got to get something from the fashion closet. Please, Emily!"

"All right," said Emily, and her voice might have been softer than usual, but Andy wasn't going to look at her face, didn't want to know if it showed surprise or pity or knowing, and she ran out into the hallway without putting the sweatshirt back on.


End file.
